


Running Out Of Pages

by UniverseOnHerShoulders



Series: Prompt Fills [9]
Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Drunken Confessions, F/M, First Kiss, Flirting, whouffaldi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-08
Updated: 2016-10-08
Packaged: 2018-08-20 06:09:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,589
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8238782
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/UniverseOnHerShoulders/pseuds/UniverseOnHerShoulders
Summary: Somehow, their evenings always come to this: Clara doing her marking, while the Doctor sits idly beside her and tries to avoid doing anything his companion might deem to be "annoying." So he's surprised when she asks him for background noise while she works - although of course, there are stipulations...





	

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is for Lostboy, who told me he would be happy to read my versions of Twelve and Clara reading the telephone directory. Silly fluff ensued. 
> 
> Can be seen as a prequel to [A Hot, Bitter Mess.](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7627663)
> 
> Yes, I named this fic after a line in "Hotline Bling." Bite me.

“Doctor,” Clara asked, from her position on the sofa; legs tucked underneath her, marking spread across her lap, glass of wine within easy reach. “I have a request.” 

“No,” he said without hesitation, refusing to meet her eye and instead focusing with some determination on his hands. “Whatever it is, no.” 

She scowled deeply, tapping her pen against her mark book in a way that clearly signalled her displeasure. “You don’t even know my request.” 

“The last request you made ended with us getting… what was it?” he made a distasteful face, running a finger over the plaid fabric of trousers. “’Space married.’” 

“You weren’t complaining,” she muttered bitterly, turning a delicate shade of pink nonetheless. “Much.” 

“Clara. You’re digressing. Stop digressing and get to the point. I know your tiny human brain is easily distracted, but do try to concentrate. You’re a teacher, you’re responsible for young pudding brains! You need to be able to prioritise thought processes.”

“Now who’s digressing?” Clara asked with a smirk, sipping her wine as she teased him. “Oh yeah, the Time Lord Victorious. So, shut up, space man. Request: I need background noise.” 

“And this applies to me… how?”

“You can make background noise.”

“No. No, no, no, no. I’m not singing. Not after last time. Not after that accidental record contract that involved selling my soul and my first-born child to Apple.”

“I don’t want you to sing,” Clara assured him, then noticed his look of hurt and immediately backtracked. “I mean. Your singing is wonderful, but no, not singing. Something more… mundane.”

“Animal noises are also out,” he clarified, holding up a warning finger. “As is humming, or whistling. You thump me when I whistle.”

“Yes, because you _harmonise._ Or try to. It’s annoying. I get that you have a respiratory bypass, but that’s just showing off. Now stop bloody digressing, it’s a perfectly simple request. I want you to just read to me.” 

“Read to you?”

“Yes, read to me. It’s not a difficult concept.” 

“But that’s… distracting. Surely. You can’t do both things at once, you’re only hu- stop looking at me like that. Stop it. Don’t do that.” 

“So pick something that you find boring,” Clara said patiently, before adding under her breath: “Shouldn’t be difficult, that’s most of my bookshelf for you.” 

“Early twenty-first century fiction was really nothing to write home about, Clara. Now, the twenty-second century… amazing. Beyond compare. I’ll just pop off and-” 

“No. No no no. You are not sneaking off into the TARDIS. You’ll turn up again next week with cold coffee. _Again._ ” 

“Will not.”

“Will.”

“ _Fine._ I’ll find something boring. Like you said, shouldn’t be difficult.” He poked his tongue out at her and clambered, spider-like, over the back of the sofa to examine her bookcases, running a finger over the spines in a way Clara found objectively horrifying.

Clara sighed, resolving not to bring the issue up, and instead skimmed through her fourth essay of the night. 

“Clara?’ the Doctor asked from somewhere behind her, in the kind of tone that struck apprehension into her core. It was the kind of tone that was usually implemented only when he had done something superbly stupid.

“For the love of fuck, what did you do?”

“Nothing,” he said at once, overly defensive. “I just… what’s a telephone directory?”

“It’s a list of people’s phone numbers.”

“But… you have the internet.”

“Yes,” she explained patiently, in the kind of voice she used in response to his frequent and staggeringly stupid questions. “But we didn’t always. This was the old fashioned way. It got put through people’s doors.”

“So…” he looked horrified by the idea, his eyes widening with shock. “So _anyone_ could have your number?”

“Yeah,” Clara said, furrowing her brow at his consternation. “Unless you opted out.”

“But what about… aliens?” he asked, jabbing at the weighty tome suspiciously, as though it might suddenly turn into a Zygon. “They might get your number and leave you suspicious messages.”

“Like you do, you mean?”

“Shut up,” he picked the book up, now content it wouldn’t change shape, and leafed through it, looking scandalised by the contents. “There are _addresses_ in here!”

“Yes,” she said patiently, slipping into her teacher voice. “Yes, there are.” 

“Clara, this is dangerous! You’re at risk from being in this book!” 

“You worry too much,” she chided, rolling her eyes and taking another sip of wine. “I haven’t been abducted yet. Except by this one alien in a big blue box, and _I_ actually got _his_ number… from a _much_ dodgier source.” 

The Doctor fell silent for a moment, opting to play her game. “You make a good point. Besides, if any aliens turned up they’d probably fossilise of boredom while waiting for you to finish marking.”

“It’s honestly like you want me to throw something at your head.” 

“I’ll be good,” he acquiesced hastily, turning to the first page of the commercial listings. “Right. _Why_ do I have to read the telephone directory to you?” 

“Because – and I have explained this already – I’m marking. I need background noise. I’m used to tuning you out anyway. Read.” 

He blinked at her owlishly, unsure whether to be stung by her comment. “Well. I’ll read it if you do.” 

“Doctor, I’m working. That’s sort of the point.” 

“You have to or I won’t. And I’ll be really _bombastically_ annoying. Might even deconstruct your washing machine again.”

Clara groaned, dropping her pen and face-planting into her marking. “For the love of fuck, why are you like this?” 

“It’s why you like me.” 

“Who said I like you?” 

“You put up with me.” 

“I hate you,” Clara informed him primly, but she grinned. “A lot. Get reading. Once I’ve read, we can order pizza. OK?” 

“ _Fine._ Right. Apple Conservatories. That’s a rubbish name, everyone’s going to just get you confused with Apple Inc, and lord knows that’s not going to go well once the franchise wars start in the late twenty-second century. Their number is… well that’s a bit long, no one’s going to remember that, are they?” 

“Doctor,” Clara said, with an impending sense that this may have been a bad idea. “Just read. No comments. Just read. Can you do that?” 

“Fine,” he muttered, running his finger down the page to the next entry. “Right. Atrium Accounting,” he paused, screwing up his face before giving in to temptation. “An atrium is a building space though, it has nothing to do with accountancy. That’s a very misleading title, it sounds like they should be an architecture firm. Accountancy is _boring_ too, it’s like maths but with more responsibility.” 

“ _Doctor._ ”

“Sorry. Aztec Paving.” He sighed deeply, unable to stop himself. “Look, the Aztecs were a deeply respected civilisation, they would definitely object to being reduced to laying paving slabs. I’m sure they’d be pretty mad, actually, I could go back and ask them if you liked.” 

“Doctor. I will actually take you back to the Aztecs and have you sacrificed unless you can read nicely.” 

“Sorry Miss.” 

"Thank you.”

“Bramble Bridal Alterations. That’s a _ludicrous_ name. Brambles are sharp and pointy and not the kind of thing you-”

“ _Right._ For the love of… that is _it._ No more reading. OK? Just sit quietly and don’t mutter or hum or sing or deconstruct anything. Thank you.” 

“But-” 

“No buts. Just do it.”

“Fine,” he mumbled, twiddling this thumbs unhappily and scowling down at the rug, chucking the offending book onto the coffee table. “Fine. Quiet. I can be quiet. That’s me. Quiet.” 

“Good,” Clara said contentedly, resuming her marking with a sigh. “Thank you.” 

There was a brief, glorious moment of silence, before Clara became aware of a low humming noise that seemed to fill the room, and was issuing – completely inexplicably – from the Doctor’s general direction. 

“Doctor,” she began, narrowing her eyes at him suspiciously. “Is that…”

“Not me,” he assured her, the humming continuing as he spoke. “Honest.” 

“It sounds like you. It sounds like the noise you make when you think I can’t hear.” 

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he scoffed, raising his eyebrows in a passing attempt at incredulity. “How could I speak and hum?” 

“I don’t know, maybe that respiratory bypass you told me about when you thought I was asleep?” 

“You _were_ asleep!” 

“I was feigning sleep in the hope you’d shut up. Spoiler alert: apparently that’s not a deterrent.”

The Doctor harrumphed in a decidedly unimpressed manner. “My physiology is extremely interesting, and deserves more respect than it gets. Just not in a creepy science lab kind of way.”

“There’s parts of your physiology I’d certainly find interesting,” Clara smirked, the wine abruptly rushing to her head, and he frowned as he attempted to process her words. “Never mind.”

“What did you mean?”

“I meant I’d like to pickle you and keep you in a suitcase under my bed,” she explained, rolling her eyes. “I meant there’s parts of your physiology that are compatible with parts of mine and maybe – just maybe – I’d be interested in slotting them together. Part A into Part B.”

“I don’t… _oh._ ” He turned a violent shade of maroon, stumbling over his words. “Clara!" 

“What?” she asked, smirking lightly, half-horrified at herself and half-pleased by the impact her words were having. “Does flirting really get you that riled up?” 

“It’s not flirting, it’s…” he fumbled for the right word, the blush slowly fading from his cheeks but his eyes remaining wide and uncertain. “Distracting. It’s very distracting. You’re not flirting with me, you’re distracting me.” 

“From?” 

“…breathing?” he chanced, squinting at her apprehensively. 

“You’ve literally got a respiratory bypass. Nope, not gonna fly. Try again, spaceman.” She inched fractionally closer to him on the sofa, looking up at him with an infuriating smugness. 

“From… urm…” he fought to find an excuse that she wouldn’t mock him for. “From being clever.” 

“Really?” she asked, with wide-eyed innocence. “Am I making your brain shut down right now?”

“Yes,” he confirmed, realising too late that she was edging closer. “Clara, you’ve had wine, this is really… you’re going to break my…” 

“Your?” 

“Brain,” he finished lamely, as she scooched onto his lap, settling comfortably around the angles of his hips. “Honestly, this is… my…” 

“What? I mean, if your brain disengages, you’re not going to devour me or anything weird, are you? You’re not secretly a cannibal?” 

“No, I’m not secretly a-” 

She crashed her lips to his before he could object any further, his brain short-circuiting entirely at the unexpected contact. She tasted of wine and chewing gum and something he couldn’t quite put his finger on, not least because both of his hearts were hammering in his chest and supernovae were fizzing in his mind’s eye. When she pulled away, she was panting slightly, her irises blown wide with desire, and she grinned as she looked him up and down. 

“This,” she decided after a moment’s thought. “Is the longest silence you have ever achieved.”

“I… well… you…” 

“I think I like it,” she continued, as though he hadn’t spoken, one hand ruffling his hair in a conciliatory manner. “I might even have to kiss you again. Who knows?” 

“Again?” he managed, unsure whether to be alarmed or excited by the prospect. “You want to do that again?” 

“Wanted to do that for a while now, so why limit myself to once? Besides, it keeps you quiet.” 

“You like me being quiet?” 

“Sometimes,” she admitted, frowning slightly and tilting her head to the side as she considered the question. “Depends. Not if you’re supposed to have a plan to save us from impending doom. But some evenings like this it’s nice.” 

“Here I was thinking you wanted background noise…” 

“I’m changeable. Changeable Clara, changeable human, twenty-five moods a minute, and all the other wonderful drivel you mutter under your breath when you think I can’t hear.” 

“You _can’t_ hear that.” 

“I always hear you,” she assured him, with surprising softness, one of her hands cupping his cheek in a way that he dimly remembered from prior to his regeneration. “Always.” 

“You know,” he mumbled, thrown by the physical intimacy. “When you gave me that book of names and addresses, I didn’t envision this happening.”

“That’s because,” Clara booped the end of his nose and beamed at him. “I’m _changeable_. And you’re adorable. And I’ve had a glass of wine.”

“I can tell.” 

“Shut it,” she grinned at him nonetheless, not in the least bit malicious in her chastising. “I give up on this ridiculous marking. You can take me into the vortex tomorrow and I’ll do it there while you do something bombastically annoying in your workshop and the TARDIS makes noises that it thinks I don’t notice.” 

“They’re important noises,” the Doctor muttered, casting his eyes downwards to avoid having to look at Clara as he made his confession. “They’re… never mind.” 

“They’re _what_?” 

“Scanning you,” he said quietly, turning his head completely away and chewing on his lower lip. “Checking things are all a-ok.”

“You…” Clara paused, digesting the news. “Your ship _scans_ me?”

“It scans everyone,” he countered, defensive of his ship and its motives. “Just to you know… check. These things are important.” 

“You’re cute,” she decided, smiling widely at him, and he felt the knot of worry in his chest melt away as she did so. “But weird as hell. Not to mention, just occasionally, a tiny bit stalky. Now, I’m tipsy, and I’m tired, so you’re coming to bed with me.” 

“Clara!” 

“Oh, don’t get all old-fashioned on me, I’m not about to shag your brains out. I want something to cuddle. Please.”

“Oh,” he frowned infinitesimally, wondering if he could legitimately protest. “I don’t know if I’m a-” 

“You do hugs. Hugs are just standing up cuddles. Bedroom, now. And take off the boots, you got that weird sentient mud on my sheets last time and the washing machine still hasn’t recovered.”

“Yes ma’am.”

 

* * *

 

Clara smiled tiredly over at the Doctor from her position in bed, remembering an old joke as he busied himself with his task. 

“A is for _all the swear words,_ ” she began, settling back against her pillows and closing her eyes for a moment. “Wonderful value, call 0800-oh-fuck-ow for a quote.” 

“B,” he retorted, his grin evident in his tone as he crossed the room and laid their daughter in her arms. “Is for _baby_. Call 0800-no-she’s ours.” 

Clara looked down at the little girl and beamed, stroking her cheek with a fingertip as she addressed the matter at hand. “C is for _calling her a name._ ” 

“She looks like a Lily,” he decided after a moment’s thought, and the infant stirred fractionally, tiny hand coming up to clasp Clara’s hair in one chubby fist. “Of all the names we discussed, I think that one is hers.” 

“Lily Oswald-Smith,” Clara murmured, and the little girl opened her eyes to look up at her mother, hazel orbs meeting hazel orbs for the first time. “Who’d have thought… you began with a book.” 

“And not,” the Doctor teased lightly, pressing a kiss to Clara’s temple. “The kind of book your mother teaches. But the kind of book that nobody notices.” 

“I think that maybe we should save this story for when she’s a little older,” Clara decided, yawning as she arranged herself more comfortably in bed. “Although admittedly… I’m not sure they’ll still have telephone directories by then.”

“Time machine,” the Doctor reminded her with a proud grin. “A time machine for our time traveller.”


End file.
